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Through the Looking Glass

Now that it is clear we’re moving back to America, I find myself reflecting on our sixteen years in London. Really? Yeah, well, you know. So, in the next few posts I’ll probably wax lyrical (or not) about our years here: how my sons went from toddlers to men, how my daughter was born here (now that’s a typically English story–tea and biscuits in the delivery room), how I learned to drive–for the first time– here (I was only 37, you see), how I found out what a picnic should really look like (it does not involve tupperware), how to watch your sons play rugby without throwing up (modified face-palm posture). The important stuff. We have all become dual citizens in every way you can imagine.

When we moved to London in 1994 it was April and soon to be the sunniest summer in years. David and I thought how silly that we believed all those stories about the crap London weather. We smugly quoted all the poems about summer in England. Never mind. The boys were five and two and a half. We chucked James into school there and then. His uniform included rust colored knickerbockers, knee socks, a knitted vest and a cravat. David and I loved it and laughed hysterically as brave little James walked through the streets of Knightsbridge in a long line of identical boys (and girls), hands clasped behind his back, chin up. His brother would follow after a year at an English nursery called Ring Rose. We called it Ring Worm after we found out that much of Will’s time was spent “sitting nicely,” an important skill, apparently, for the finer class of offspring. We didn’t quite fit in there. When Will was three-ish, his teacher sent a note home saying that he needed a ‘pencil grip’. This is a rubber ring that goes around the pencil so tiny fingers can manage to hold it. I told them that Will needed a crayon. They were concerned that Will didn’t know his colours. I said, “Will is three, he barely knows his name.”

Both boys were together at Hill House (of the knickerbockers, a uniform sold only at Harrods), an international school for four years. They were some of the happiest for our family. All the very best things about English education were present, and some of the most peculiar. The headmaster was a retired army Colonel and believed absolutely in the importance of both physical and mental fitness. Along with the rigorous academic curriculum (English, French, Latin, Maths, Music, Religious Education), he made sure his pupils spent hours running around. Their athletic field was the Duke of York square, a vast swath of lawn off the King’s Road. It belongs to the Queen who has allowed the Colonel to use it since the 1950s. Cheers, M’am. Along with cricket and football and athletics (track and field), my boys learned to play a decent game of tennis and to swim. Why? Well, as the Colonel explained to me, “I want the children to grow up to be excellent weekend guests.” And my boys are, thank you very much.

The Colonel had a well-deserved reputation for tough, intractable snap judgement. When prospective teachers come for an interview, they must climb the stairs (five flights) to his office. If they arrive out of breath, they are turned away. The Colonel employs mostly Antipodeans because, “They are rarely if ever ill.” He hires only women for the youngest grades because, “The little ones need to be cuddled.” He made frequent handkerchief checks because, “Every person of worth always has a clean handkerchief.”

When we went to see the school, James wasn’t even in London yet. David and I stood in the wonderfully grand, and shabby, main school hall and waited for something to happen. A couple little eight year-olds took us on a full tour of that building (there are two others scattered around Knightsbridge and Chelsea). Then the Colonel swept in, all snow white hair, Prince of Wales check suit and waistcoat, Windsor-knotted tie. He gave us bone-crushing handshakes, asked the name of our son (quavering I said, “James Pershing Herrick, sir), and swept back out. His secretary gave us a slip of paper. I figured it was, well, I don’t remember what I figured it was. It was James’s admission confirmation. No exam, no interview, no empty chit-chat. It seems that if the Colonel approves of the parents, the kid is in. Shwoo, glad I wore the grown up shoes and David wore the tie. The Colonel died a few years ago, 96 and taking the stairs to the end.

James’s two close school friends were an Iranian and a Malaysian. The Iranian boy was from a wealthy, cultured family who escaped the revolution. He went on to Harrow. The Malaysian was the son of one of the drivers at the embassy. He went back to Malaysia. Will’s best friend was a Spanish boy named Inigo (In-you-go, as his father suggested). Inigo spoke no English, Will, no Spanish. They would play for hours, each speaking their mother tongue, each understanding the other perfectly. There were two other Williams in our Will’s class. So, each was called by their full name. For years Will signed everything, including my birthday card, William Herrick.

Emma never got to Hill House, sadly. I so wanted to see her in knickerbockers. All three went on to a school in Wimbledon founded by a teacher from Hill House. The same ethos filled that school. To ensure that the students were not only good weekend guests (shooting was added to their non-academic lessons), they were taught to sew, dance, read an ordinance survey (an incredibly complicated map of the countryside), bind a wound, mountain climb, cook and clean up. If they were dropped in the middle of Shropshire with nothing but a packet of matches, a tea bag and a map, they could find their way home–and perform decent first aid along the way, in latin. There were sheep and pigs and a wattle and daub hut built by the students on the grounds. The year that James studied World War II, his class was given a cardboard suitcase, a few pound coins, a train ticket and a name tag tied to their coat. Along with their identity papers and a ration book, they were taken on a train into the country to learn what it was like to be evacuated during the Blitz. The sight of a flock nine-year-olds, huddled against the rain on the platform, was heartbreaking, and, let me tell you, my son has never forgotten it. Of course, he’s never forgotten being shipped off to Switzerland for three weeks when he was just eight (another one of the Colonel’s “making of the man” trips; forced marches at dawn, Nutella sandwhiches, vala-ree-vala-rah). Mostly because he missed Halloween.

Emma went to a nursery called Dickie Birds. It was located on Pepys Road (that’s Peeps). Cracked me up every time I dropped her off. There was a squirrel (pronounced squee-rill) named Phil who came to visit every day. They did a classic nativity play. You know the kind, shepherds wearing tea towels on their heads, Mary and Joseph draped in bed spreads, the littlest ones done up as lambs, the angel in a sheet and tinsel. Emma was the innkeeper (bathrobe, candle in hand, beard made of cotton wool). She was three and managed her line (‘There is nooooo rooooom at the inn!’) beautifully. She developed an English accent that, if it could not cut glass, left a mighty deep scratch. The American cousins and grandparents would ask her to “say something in English” when we were on the Cape for the summer. Of course, she had no clue what they wanted and just spoke in her teeny-tiny Alice in Wonderland voice; “I’ve no idee-a what you could mean.”

Finally, they all went to the American school. James was terribly excited, Will had no (expressed) opinion and Emma (appearing in the role of third child) went along for the ride. All those kids knew about American school culture was what they saw on television. James, for one expected long halls, rows of lockers, soda machines, cheerleaders. He got some of that. But, and here’s where I think we did OK, he was shocked, shocked I tell you, at how NOT American he was. He didn’t have a particular sense of national identity because he’d gone to school with so many nationalities. He thought he was American because he kept up with the Red Sox, surfed like a Beach Boys hit and wore flip-flops. But the truth was that he was way more European. When I say national identity I guess I mean he didn’t think he was special or better because he had a U.S. passport. He was, and is, I hope, just James. And Will? He decided in 6th grade that after college he was coming back to Europe. “Barcelona, I think. I’m hoping to find a nice Spanish girl to marry,” he said. He stands by that plan. And, ah, Emma. She is an English rose and an American daisy. The one who was born here has managed to combine the best of both. She has a stiff upper lip (I’d pick her to sound the charge of the Light Brigade and roll the bandages after), and the best eye-roll around (Mom, you’re embarassing me, again). She’ll drive a soccer ball right through you to score, and she’ll run back to pick you up after.

So, we’ve got these world citizens to ship back to America. I am not sure if we are repatriating, expatriating or emigrating. I do know that when we go through security at Heathrow, they’ll say “Have a nice visit abroad, Mrs. Herrick.” And, when we pass through immigration in Boston they’ll say, “Welcome home, Ellen.” Thanks, I guess.